The Rocking Chair

by Nate Kenyon

         My wife and I were delighted with our new apartment.  On the third floor of an attractive brick building, situated on a pleasant street away from the noise of the city, it was all we had hoped to find and more.  We moved in quickly, settling our belongings the way we liked in each room, laying out rugs, hanging pictures, and filling the closets.  The living room was bright and sunny, with a fireplace, high ceilings, and large windows that faced the south, looking out over a pleasant lot filled with green grass.  The bedroom was darker, and often gloomy, which I did not like as much; but my wife seemed to take to it, and spent much of her time sitting in the rocking chair beside the only window.

          Our neighbors seemed to be pleasant people, though for the first few days we heard little from them other than a quick hello in the stairwell as my wife and I headed out to dinner one evening.  That was why I was so surprised when I was approached by the woman who lived in the next-door apartment, as I was leaving one morning.  She had heard a racket through the walls last night and wondered if everything was all right.  I assured her everything was fine, that my wife and I had christened our home with our first fight, a few pots and pans had been thrown, but that otherwise we had survived.  I apologized for alarming her, and told her things would be quieter from now on. 

          I missed the bus and was late for work, which only irritated me more, and by the time I was on my way home that night I was in an extremely agitated mood.  I was a bit worried about how my wife would react to me when I returned.  What we had fought about the night before I could barely recall, but I knew that it had been important to her, and that for all intents and purposes I had spoiled the first week in our new home.  

          I detoured to pick up a bouquet of wildflowers from the local shop and a bottle of wine.  When I returned to our apartment I found my wife in the bedroom, reading a book in what had swiftly become her favorite spot, that rocking chair by the window.  I asked her forgiveness and gave her the flowers.  But while we were preparing dinner I thought she reacted rather coolly to my questions, and that set my mind to worrying.  My wife had been occasionally distant during the course of our marriage, and lately it had seemed to get worse, which was one of the reasons I had wanted to move in the first place.  I was afraid she had been losing feelings for me, while I was still desperately in love with her.  I had always wondered why she married me.  She was a beautiful woman.  Many better men had been attracted to her, and still were, I knew.  So I had always tried to be attentive and kind, heaping my affections on her, knowing that if she left me I would lose my mind with grief.

          During the meal, I told her about my conversation with the old lady next door.  She seemed to find it amusing for some reason, or perhaps it was just the wine.  After the dishes were done we made love in the living room in front of the fire, and although she returned my embrace, it seemed that some of her usual passion was missing, though I did not question her about it.  Later I awoke in the middle of the night and saw her sitting in her chair by the window, her eyes moist in the moonlight, hands clasped in her lap.

          The next day I took the afternoon off to buy her a present.  I shopped for hours, becoming obsessed with finding the right gift, something that would restore her feelings for me.  I had done her wrong, and she had evidently not forgiven me though I had tried everything I could to convince her.  Something more drastic was in order.  Finally I ended up in the most expensive jewelry shop in town, and bought a diamond choker the jeweler assured me would warm any woman’s heart.  I hurried home after the sun had fallen.

          But if I had hoped for a warmer reception at the door, I was sorely disappointed.  I found her in the bedroom rocking chair again, reading glasses perched in her nose and a book in her hand, though she was not looking at the print but staring into space, deep in thought.  When I entered the room she did not realize I was there at first, and then I believed I saw a frown pass across her face as she glimpsed my reflection in the window.  I showed her the necklace, and helped her put it on.  She seemed to brighten a bit, and as she appraised herself in the mirror I imagined a smile touched the corners of her mouth.  But when I kissed her she responded with little passion.

          I was crestfallen.  What had I done to deserve this treatment?  I had a good job with a decent salary.  I had always provided for her, in every sense of the word.  I rarely raised my voice in anger.  If she wanted something I had a habit of getting it for her as soon as I could.  I was attentive and loving.  What more could she ask for in a husband?

          I asked her what was wrong.  She only glared at me, as if she could not believe I did not remember.  Again, I apologized for the fight, and told her it would never happen again.  I had lost my temper, but, I reminded her gently, so had she.  Weren’t we both equally at fault?  And, if not, then couldn’t she accept that I had suffered enough?

          Nothing I said had any effect.  I wanted to throw my arms around her.  I wanted to fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness.  But in the end I did nothing.  That night I ate alone in the kitchen, and when I entered the bedroom and climbed into bed, she did not stir.  The diamond choker sat in its box on the dressing table by the mirror.

          When I awoke the next morning she was not in the bedroom, and her side of the bed was cold to the touch.  I found her in the living room, sitting by the dead embers of the fireplace and dressed only in her nightgown.  I told her she looked a bit pale and she would catch a chill, but she only glanced at me in disdain, her wide, beautiful eyes seeming to mock my every word.  I draped my coat around her bare shoulders and went into the kitchen to make us breakfast, but my stomach was churning, and I could not eat. 

          At work I grew desperate.  I tried to come up with another way to prove myself, but I could think of nothing.  I had spent a good part of my savings on the necklace, and anything else I bought for her would seem ridiculous in contrast.

          My mind had turned to darker thoughts by lunchtime.  I began to fixate on all sorts of things once again.  Picking up the ringing phone and finding no one on the other end; discovering a pair of panties I had never seen before in her dresser.  What if she had been having an affair after all?  Suddenly the idea would not leave my mind.  I called the apartment, and got no answer.  I imagined all sorts of scenarios; I imagined her in bed with another man, and my heart twisted in my chest.  Making up my mind to confront her, I gathered my things and headed for the bus.

          When I arrived home, I found her alone in the bedroom.  I asked her why she had not answered the phone.  She continued to read in her chair, as if I weren’t there.  I asked her why she would not speak to me.  Could I have been that much of a brute?  After all, I had done everything in my power to make her happy.  Our fight had been such a trivial one; I knew she had been faithful to me, I told her.  Why I had ever doubted it I couldn’t say.  We were in love.  We would always be together.  Nothing could change that, nothing.

          I paced, I raised my voice to her.  She did not respond.  Did she want the neighbors to hear?  I raised my voice further; I ranted and raved.  I pulled at my hair, pacing back and forth in front of her.  Why was she torturing me this way, I asked her.  If I had hit her I regretted it, I would do anything to take it back.  I fell on my knees in front of her, begging her to forgive me for what I had done.  When still she did not answer I grew wild.  She had the run of the house, I said.  Why should she remain in that damned chair all the time?  It wasn’t healthy, a young woman like her, sitting in such a gloomy room all alone, such a gloomy, stuffy room, with that smell hanging in the air like spoiled fruit.  She was suffering for it, that much was clear.  She had simply to look in the mirror, see her pale skin, her limp hair and bloodless lips. 

          Still, she mocked me.  That look on her face!  I grabbed her by the arms and shook her, her odd slippery arms, so cold and slimy to the touch, her eyes staring, couldn’t she stop that staring, that staring all the time...

          A noise in the other room, a shuffling of feet, a voice calling out to ask if anything was wrong.  Suddenly I heard a scream. 

          I looked up.  There in the open doorway stood my neighbor, hand clasped across her mouth, looking into our bedroom in horror, looking at me and the ever silent form of my wife in her rocking chair.